Time and Place
by simply woven
Summary: Snapshots of House's life, ranging from childhood to adulthood. Featuring Blythe House, Cuddy, Wilson, Stacy, and others.
1. Blythe: 1967

_Cairo, Egypt – July 1967_

Blythe House wonders why it is she feels like she knows her son better than she knows her own husband? Yes, Gregory is her flesh and blood, the life she produced, her child. But John is the man she made the conscious decision to share her life with, to honor and to cherish, to grow old with. He was her best friend, her sweetheart, the love of her life. Yet lately, she's felt like she hardly knows him at all.

They – John, Blythe, and eight-year-old Gregory – are in Cairo, Egypt. It's been five months since they've arrived, but everything still feels foreign. Up until now, the small family has only lived in San Diego, California and Boblingen, Germany. Though both locations were new for Blythe, they had always lived on designated military bases. Being surrounded by other American families much like their own provided Blythe with a great deal of comfort.

Things are different in Cairo.

There are no American bases in Egypt. Not a single one. There just aren't enough men assigned to Egypt, John tells Blythe when he first gets his transfer papers, and very few of those who are in Egypt have brought their family. This makes Blythe wonder why John has brought his family, but she doesn't voice her concerns. She never does.

Without the base, Blythe's sense of community and camaraderie has all but disappeared. She doesn't speak the country's languages, doesn't practice the people's religion, and doesn't understand their culture. Even after five months, she feels like she's treading choppy water, struggling to keep her head above crashing waves of confusion.

Blythe knows part of her discomfort is caused by the nature of John's new assignment. Or, by what she doesn't know about the nature of John's new assignment. Of course Blythe knows what he is trained to do, what he did in San Diego and in Germany. She's seen him fly, has photos of him holding Gregory in front of one of his jets. Blythe understands all of that. What she doesn't know is how John is using those skills here, in Egypt. Is he flying? Working in an office? Training? Involved in a top-secret, cloak and dagger mission for some government agency? She doesn't know because John won't tell her.

Though Blythe knows the need for secrecy isn't John's fault, she can't help but feel the distance it is wedging them. The distance grows daily: every unanswered question is a foot, each unexplained absence a yard, and the resulting disputes each feel like a mile. Five months in to their two-year stay, Blythe feels like there's an entire world between them.

Her saving grace is Gregory. Blythe has always loved her son, but she's never felt as if she's understood him. When he was a young boy, a toddler, Blythe felt constantly bewildered by him. She didn't know how to handle his outbursts because she couldn't recognize their cause, struggled to answer his questions because couldn't understand what it was he wanted to hear. She gained a better understanding of him during their two-year stint in Germany, but his tendency toward solitude and rumination were still enigmatic. Gregory is now eight and Blythe is finally seeing her son for who he is. He's curious and smarter than any child she's ever encountered; his antics and tactlessness make her laugh and his bright blue eyes make her swoon; his outbursts make her cheeks burn with rage and his tears make her heart sink with sorrow; his questions make her think harder than she has ever thought before, and his laughter makes her happier than anything in the world. After five months of being each other's constant companion, Blythe knows her son like the back of her own hand.

It might feel like there are galaxies between Blythe and her husband, and maybe there are. But Blythe isn't upset by this because, with her son by her side, she's never alone.


	2. Greg: 1975

_Georgetown Preparatory School - Bethesda, Maryland – August 1975_

This is the first time you've been on U.S. soil with no imminent plans to leave since you were four and living in San Diego. You're a true-blue military brat, have spent almost every birthday in a different country. Your sixth and seventh birthdays were in Germany, eighth and ninth in Egypt. You left Egypt for Honolulu on your tenth birthday, so that one was spent in tens of thousands of feet over China. Japan saw the most birthdays: twelve, thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen. Almost as many as San Diego. Now it's the 23rd of August in the year 1975, you're sixteen years old, and you're in Bethesda, Maryland.

You're unpacking your two suitcases, organizing your records, and trying to figure out your new roommate. You think about lying when he asks you where you're from. You could tell him Lexington, Kentucky, which is where your parents live now. You're not sure you want people knowing that you've spent more time abroad than you have in the US, or that you know seven languages, or that you don't have a single friend who doesn't live over a thousand miles away. You're afraid of giving them reason to alienate you more than you're going to alienate yourself.

But you don't lie; it would take far too much effort to maintain a façade around the person with whom you're sharing a 150 square foot room. You tell him the truth. You rattle off names of countries and watch as his eyes widen. He asks if you're pulling his leg. You tell him no and ask where he's from. He tells you Alexandria (Virginia, not Egypt, though it takes a moment for you to realize that). The two of you end up having an actual conversation: he's been here since he was a freshman, is on the lacrosse team (like you), hates Nixon, and loves The Stones. He offers you a joint and you're glad you decided not to lie.

He – his name is Sam – introduces you to some of his friends, next. Most of them are on the lacrosse team. Every one of them has tanned skin, huge shoulders, and perfectly cropped hair. You first think that they must all be the same, and that bores you. But then you talk to some of them, one named Bob and one named Mikey and another named Jon, and you realize you're wrong. They're not too bad. Very few of them actually want to be here, none of them admit to supporting Nixon (though who would, these days? Besides your father, of course), and they all reek of pot. One's even an army brat. So you stay in the tiny, smoky room, get high, and make a conscious effort not to piss anyone off. You must do a good a job, because a few hours later you're sitting at a table in the dining hall with the same guys you just toked up with and you feel more comfortable than you have in a long time. You won't call these guys your friends yet (at least not to anyone but your mother when she calls you tonight or tomorrow morning to make sure you've settled in), but you're not ruling it out completely.

It's the 23rd of August in the year 1975 and you are sixteen years old. You are at a boarding school in Bethesda, Maryland and, for the first time in your life, you feel like you're where you belong.


	3. Lisa: 1984

_University of Michigan – Ann Arbor, MI – August 1984_

I do not have a chip on my shoulder, Lisa Cuddy attempts to convince herself as she walks out of the college bookstore; he doesn't even know me.

"Hey! Girl Who Thinks She Has Something To Prove!" Lisa stops abruptly at the shouting but doesn't turn around. The guy calls out again. His voice is closer this time, "You forgot your biochem book!"

At that, Lisa turns around. The guy who had insisted not two minutes ago that she has 'something to prove' but 'knows how to party' is jogging across the pavement walkway, a thick textbook tucked under his arm. When he reaches her, he holds it out. Sure enough, it's the book she just purchased for her biochemistry course. Lisa grasps the book with her fingers but can't get it from his grasp when she pulls back. Looking down, she sees his long fingers wrapped deliberately around the edge, holding onto it firmly. She looks back up and narrows her eyes at Bookstore Guy.

"Aren't you going to thank me?" He asks. Lisa doesn't know much about this guy aside from the clues she picked up in the bookstore, but she can recognize arrogant mockery when she hears it. She can also recognize a guy attempting to flirt when she sees one. She decides to indulge him.

"Why should I thank you for deliberately holding one of my textbooks so you'd have to run out here and give it to me?" Lisa asks smartly, her gaze holding his steadily.

Bookstore Guy doesn't waver. "Because it gives you an excuse to talk to me again. Girls have committed coldblooded murder for the chance to do that; the least you can do is say 'thank you.'"

Lisa's eyes roll instinctively and her grip on the book tightens, but she can't help the upwards curl of her lips at the ridiculousness of his comment. "Thank you for returning my book," she concedes.

Bookstore Guys grins, revealing deep dimples. He lets go of the book and turns abruptly. "Good luck this semester, Girl Who Thinks She Has Something to Prove!" He calls, waving over his shoulder.

Sufficiently intrigued, Lisa watches as the twenty-something walks back to the bookstore.


	4. Lisa II: 1996

_Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital – Princeton, NJ – March 1996_

An overwhelming sense of déjà vu hits you the moment he walks into your office.

You've forgotten how tall he is, how slender yet athletic. You've forgotten about his peculiar strut, and the way it exudes a lethal mix of arrogance and reticence. You remember the eyes, though. How could anyone forget those eyes? He's wearing khaki pants, brown sports coat, and a blue dress shirt. No tie. His brown hair is mussed and you think it's a bit thinner than it was the last time you saw him. More than a decade will do that, you suppose.

You greet him not by first name, but by his title: Doctor House. That's why he's standing in your office, after all. He is a doctor looking to be hired. You are a doctor looking to hire. That is all. You try to convince yourself that's all, at least.

It's a hard balance to strike, you soon realize, between the personal relationship you once shared and the professional one you're looking to begin. You haven't forgotten about Michigan, and you haven't forgotten about him. How could you, really? Your friendship was short-lived, and your sexual relationship even shorter-lived, but that doesn't minimize their lasting affects. The warmth that floods your cheeks every time his name pops up on the medical community's grapevine reminds you of this.

You know he remembers, too. That's why he called your office last week, hoping to fill a vacancy in nephrology. He was kind enough over the phone, but spoke to you as one would speak to a friend-of-a-friend, a distant acquaintance. He didn't mention Michigan once. It was better that way, you told yourself once you hung up the phone.

You know he's a risk. He has a reputation. He was expelled from Hopkins during his final year of medical school. He has been fired five times in the four years since he finished his infectious disease fellowship. He tells you during the interview that very few of his professional references will have positive things to say about anything besides his diagnostic abilities. He's a liability and you both know it. But you also know about his reputation as a medical genius and world-class diagnostician, that his IQ is in the 99th percentile and that he scored a perfect 45 on his MCATs, that he's a graduate of the University of Michigan and Johns Hopkins University and that he's trained under the best physicians at the country's best teaching hospitals. And you know those things and the attention they can bring to your hospital outweigh all else.

You wait until you're about to leave for the day before calling. A woman answers the phone and, even though you're not surprised, you feel your chest constrict. You ask for Doctor House and offer him the best deal you've been able to come up with: you'll give him the attending spot in nephrology but you won't pay him what he's worth. You can't take the risk you're taking without a few caveats. You also know that he'd be committing professional suicide if he turned your offer down: no one else will hire him. He knows this, too, and he accepts your offer readily.

You tell him to be in your office at 8 o'clock Monday morning. You then say goodnight to Doctor House.


	5. Stacy: 1997

_221B Baker Street - Princeton, NJ – February 1997_

They had never intended to work together. They'd never had to consider it, really. Greg was relatively content in Princeton-Plainsboro's nephrology department and she was happy practicing constitutional law for the ACLU in Trenton. She had been happy, at least.

"It's stressful, Greg, and the hours are ridiculous," she told him when she first began to feel like she needed a change of pace.

"You did know you were going to have to be an attorney when you decided to go to law school, right?" he countered. Stacy knew he wasn't being a jerk. He just couldn't handle change and had a hard time understanding people who could.

"Yes, and I don't want to stop being an attorney. I do, on the other hand, want to stop practicing constitutional law for the biggest civil rights organization in the state," she said evenly.

"Where do you want to practice?"

She took a stabilizing breath. This could go one of two ways. "Princeton-Plainsboro. The legal department is looking for a new general counselor."

Greg responded after a few moments of silence, "You don't think that would be a conflict of interest?" He asked. His eyebrows were arched questioningly, "I'm the legal department's number one customer. They've given me a gold card and everything. Some sort of VIP membership, I guess. It's quite exclusive."

"They have more than one lawyer," she assured him. "And I don't think our personal relationship would affect my ability to defend you. I'd put out all the stops if it came down to you losing your license, actually, because I don't think I could handle you if you didn't have your patients to keep you busy." Greg smirked. "I want this job and I think I would be good at it. I just want to know if you would be okay if we worked in the same hospital?"

"It's fine with me."

Her eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Of course," he said with an encouraging nod. "We can carpool and everything. Maybe even coordinate our outfits." Stacy rolled her eyes. "Just do yourself a favor and don't mention my name during the interview."

"You don't think they'd be relieved to have someone up in legal who can actually deal with you?" She was only half-joking.

"I think they'd question your sanity." Greg didn't seem to be joking, either.


	6. James: 1998

_The University of Pennsylvania - Philadelphia, PA – January 1998_

James Wilson jumped as a sheet of white paper descended in front of his face.

"Happy birthday to you, dearest Jimmy." House spoke from behind him. Wilson checked his watch; House was twenty-seven minutes late, though Wilson considered himself lucky that his friend showed up at all.

Wilson grabbed the paper and glanced at it without reading it. "What, is this my two-months-late birthday gift?"

"I figured it'd make you feel better about our relationship if I acted like I hadn't forgotten." House sat across from him.

Wilson smirked at his friend before redirecting his attention to the sheet of paper. He read it over once, narrowed his eyes, and then read it over again. "Seriously?" He asked, finally looking up at House with wide eyes.

House nodded, leaning back in the wooden chair and smiling slyly, "Seriously."

"I'd have to apply," Wilson said carefully, questioningly.

"Well, yeah. Lisa Cuddy's easy, but she's not that easy," House scoffed, smirking. "You're more than qualified, Stacy will tell Cuddy you're a saint, Cuddy knows I wouldn't be friends with an idiot…you'll get it, I'm sure."

Wilson's grin grew, "Princeton, huh?"

House nodded. "Bonnie gonna be good with it?"

Wilson paused for a long moment. For a few minutes, he'd completely forgotten about his wife. Her real-estate job was focused specifically in Philadelphia, an hour away from Princeton. "Well…we'll figure something out. We can move, or I can move. Whatever. We'll figure it out." He was thinking aloud.

House's interest piqued at the tone of disregard in Wilson's tone, "Trouble in paradise?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. She'll probably just be relieved I've found a job I actually want."

House nodded once, "Good."

Wilson brought his coffee cup to his mouth and looked at the printout once more. Attending position in the Department of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. He had a good feeling about it.


	7. Lisa III: 1998

_Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital - Princeton, NJ - December 1998_

Lisa Cuddy sighed in exasperation. She had expected House in her office thirty-two minutes ago. Thirty. Two. Minutes. She understood that carelessness was his default mentality, but it made her second guess the deal she was about to offer him. It had taken an arm and a leg and one of her more revealing blouses to convince the board to go along with her idea, and she knew they'd be out to get her if this didn't work out.

There was a knock at her door before it opened.

"Thanks for joining me," she commented without looking up.

"You're welcome," House responded seriously as he dropped into the seat opposite hers. "So what's up, boss lady? Giving me my Christmas gift? You know, I asked Santa for a new set of golf clubs, but I'd settle for –"

Cuddy extended her right index finger and shushed House loudly, cutting him off mid-sentence. She finished jotting down notes that she didn't really need to jot down. A few moments later she closed the file, put her pen down, and looked at her employee. "How do you think the past two years have gone?"

"I think the fact that I'm still here sums it up nicely," he shrugged.

"Do you want to stay here?"

"I don't want to go anywhere else."

"Do you want to stay in nephrology?"

"Well I certainly don't want to move to OB/GYN or pediatrics. I think the State Medical Board might have a few issues with that. Not to mention the patients. Eek."

"Listen, Doctor House, if you can't be upfront with me—"

"—I am being upfront with you. I think the past two years have gone well and I want to stay here. Things are good."

"You're bored, though, right?" If he wasn't already, she knew he would be soon. She also knew what happened when Gregory House became bored. She wanted to avoid it at all costs.

House narrowed his eyes at her, "Diabetes, renal failure, and vasculitis aren't exactly medical mysteries, but I'm in the business of taking what I can get."

Cuddy nodded, "If you could do something else, here in the hospital, what would it be? Is there anything else you want to do? You're double board certified. You don't need to stay in nephrology forever."

"Listen, Doctor Cuddy, if you can't be upfront with me…"

She suppressed her amusement with his impersonation of her. "The board likes the money and attention you've brought to the hospital. They want to give you the chance to do more."

House's eyebrows rose.

"Department of Diagnostics. You'll get a few cases a week, mostly referrals from infectious disease or nephrology, maybe the clinic or ER. Solve the puzzles they can't. It's a significant pay raise, tenure track, better title, more flexibility and autonomy." She rattled off the positive aspects of the position.

"But?"

Cuddy sighed, "Three fellows. You'll handle the interview process—" Cuddy paused at House's groan of disapproval. "Hey, hey, hey," she held out her hands defensively, "this was the single condition the board had. The only one. You having your own department is one thing for the hospital's image, but you actually training fellows to do what you do is a whole other."

"So you're exploiting me?"

"Does that bother you?"

"No."

She smirked. "I'll need your answer by Monday at noon."

House nodded once and stood from his seat. "That it?"

"That's it." Cuddy nodded.

House had his hand on the doorknob, ready to open the door, when he paused and looked back. "I want the ortho suite on the fourth floor. Both rooms."

"With the glass walls?" She knew it was the one with glass walls. It was also the one adjacent to James Wilson's office.

A nod. "Give me the suite and I'm in."

Cuddy thought about his bargain for about as long as he had thought about her offer. "We'll talk logistics when the board reconvenes after the New Year," she said with a satisfied smile.

"Good." House nodded once more. He wasn't smiling, but Cuddy knew he was pleased. "Thank you."

"Have a good Christmas, Doctor House."


	8. James II: 1999

_Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital ICU – Princeton, NJ - May 1999 _

At first, you're angry. You're angry and getting angrier, a crescendo of fire in your chest.

You aren't sure who deserves to be the victim of the majority of your fury: the Emergency Department at Princeton General for their negligence; Stacy for her defiance; House for his bullheadedness; or yourself for not being there earlier, convincing him to do the right thing, stopping Stacy from doing the wrong thing. You aren't mad at Lisa Cuddy, though you know he will be as soon as he's able.

You're regretful.

He was playing golf with two other department heads when it happened. The two of you had plans to play golf on Sunday afternoon. You've seen the surgical site, the long line of staples, the peripheral swelling and how it looks so gruesome next to the crater of an absent rectus femoris. You don't even expect him to walk in the foreseeable future, never mind golf.

You're scared.

You're standing on one side of the Intensive Care Unit's glass wall. It's hard to tear your eyes away from the monitors and almost impossible to ignore the constant beeps and whooshes and clicks, the things that let you know that your best friend is dangling from the ledge separating life and death. He keeps losing his grip, fingernails collecting dirt as he slips closer and closer to the abyss below.

But you're hopeful, too, because every time you think he's losing his fight with gravity, he finds something to latch onto and claws his way back towards the living. Back towards you.


	9. John: 1999

_Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital - Princeton, NJ - June, 1999_

No matter where he is or what he's doing, John House stands like he has a metal rod in his spine. As a third-generation marine, he's been standing like that for as long as he can remember; his grandfather taught his father the value of holding his head high, and his father taught him. When Greg was born, John vowed to teach him the same.

It began before Greg could actually stand, with John constantly displaying his masculinity and physical strength; it went without argument that John was the head of the house, the patriarch, the leader. When Greg was finally upright in his seventh or eighth month, John told him over and over again to _stand straight, keep your chin up, real men don't cry_. And at first, because his father successfully portrayed himself as such a praiseworthy hero, Greg listened to these commands. John was thrilled.

After a few years, however, something changed. Sometime after he transplanted his family from San Diego, California to a military base in Germany, John began to notice that Greg was different. Gone was the the impressionable young boy who once looked up to him like a god and took every word he said like it was holy scripture. In his place was a grade-school-aged military brat who was intelligent, independent, and wise beyond his years and not afraid to show it. This not-so-little boy was no longer willing to blindly comply with his father's demands. _Why_, he'd ask when John ordered him to straighten his back as they rose to sing in church. John would inform him that it was a sign of strength and respect, thinking that'd be enough to placate Greg's inconvenient curiosity. It never was, and Greg would always shrug and continue to slouch through renditions of Simple Gifts and Amazing Grace.

Greg's blatant rejection of respect and discipline infuriated John. Greg pushed and pushed, mouthing off and ignoring demands until John erupted, sometimes verbally and sometimes physically. They went months at a time without so much as exchanging glances; Greg stole his father's beer, money, and car, John hid the key to the piano and changed the locks on the front and back doors. John came to realize that with Greg as his son, he could be halfway around the world from Southeast Asia yet still be knee deep in warfare. What began as a small disagreement between father and son developed into a vast, irreparable chasm. John despised the nature of his relationship with Greg, and he has always loved his son, but he would never be the first to concede; all he's ever wanted is for the boy to listen to authority, learn some discipline, and to straighten his goddamned back.

With this in the back of his mind, John didn't know what to say when finally saw Greg after his infarction. He and Blythe were in Europe when Greg first got sick, and both Stacy and James were unable to get a hold of them. When they finally returned to find a machine full of telephone messages, Greg had already two surgeries and, while still in a lot of pain, was no longer in critical condition. Once they reached Princeton-Plainsboro, John and Blythe saw the results of their son's ordeal.

"He's still in a lot of pain, but we had to get him moving again to prevent further muscle loss," James explained quietly as they stood in the physical therapy suite.

John didn't need a doctor to tell him Greg was in pain. He watched his son struggle to remain upright between a set of parallel bars, his white-knuckled hands gripping them tightly. His head was hanging low between his shoulders and his tee shirt was drenched in sweat. His entire body trembled. His back was curved, his spine weak. A tanned, brawny woman stood behind of him with a wheelchair, and a tanner, brawnier man stood in front of him. It looked as if they were supposed to be moving forward, but as far as John could see, the only direction Greg was going was...

"Woah there, Dr. House. Let's get you back into the chair - nice and easy..." the young woman's voice was tainted with urgency as Greg nearly toppled forward into her arms. John watched his son let the therapists take his weight and deposit him in the wheelchair, heard his deep groan as his head tilted back. Next to him, Blythe gasped softly.

Soon thereafter, before Greg could notice their presence, James lead them to his empty room upstairs. Greg joined them soon after, and John tried not to notice his son's struggle to move from the wheelchair to his bed. He only really looked at his son's face when he was finally settled in bed.

"What's that?" Blythe asked, eyeing the syringe that a nurse was emptying into his IV.

"Morphine booster," Greg responded shortly.

"They've got you on morphine? James said your surgery was over a week ago..." John said in a disbelieving tone. His head shook with dismay. "Damn good thing you didn't enlist...never could take a little pain…"

Greg said nothing, but pierced his father with a hard, cold stare.

"I've been saying this your whole life, Greg: you just need to keep your chin up and your back straight. I'm sure it hurts, but you're never going to walk again if you sit slumped over in your bed, high on morphine for the rest of your life."

The end of John's speech was greeted by a thick, heavy silence. He was blind to Greg's shocked, hurt expression; didn't see the way James' eyes were narrowed in disgust; didn't take too seriously the way Blythe's gaze had dropped to her lap, too ashamed of her husband to look at him. As far as John was concerned, he was encouraging Greg the same way he had since he was just a little boy. In his quest to support his son, however, John had no idea how unsupportive he was being.

"I think you should go," Greg said at last, his voice low and unwavering.

John tried not to let his surprise show, but continued to stare at his son.

"If you're sure…" Blythe said softly.

Greg nodded, eyes blinking shut with his head back against his pillow.

"We'll come back tomorrow, then," Blythe assured, moving to Greg's bedside and placing a quick kiss on his forehead. Again, Greg nodded, his eyes now fully shut.

"Keep your head up, Son." John said from where he stood beside Blythe. His hand was extended in anticipation of a handshake.

"Yeah," was all Greg said in response, his eyes remaining shut and his head remaining back against his bed.

John stood with his hand extended for one more moment before pulling back, shaking his head, and turning on his heel for the door. His chest burned with the shame of having to consider such an undisciplined, disrespectful, self-pitying man his son.

Just as John was about to exit, he turned to face his son once more, "You need to man-up, Greg." Then, John turned around and stepped through the threshold of the hospital room once more, leaving no time to see his son's reaction or for Greg to respond to his father's comment.


	10. Stacy II: 1999

_November 1999 - Princeton, NJ_

Stacy glanced around 221B Baker Street, feeling nothing.

The apartment looked emptier than it had in five years. There were open spaces on the bookshelf, a painting removed from the wall, pictures taken from the mantel. The piano still sat in the corner, the medical texts and anatomical paintings sat untouched. What remained was unmistakably masculine. Unmistakably Greg.

Greg. He sat on the leather loveseat, his rounded back to her. He rested his elbows on his bent knees and his forehead in his hands. He was still using crutches, which lay at his feet. She could see the tendons in his neck, the thick cords that stood out when he was angry or in pain. Six months ago, the site would have worried her. Now, she struggled to care at all.

The six months she'd spent with Greg post-infarction had all but wiped out her humanity. That was why she had to leave.

Stacy loved Greg, she did. He was the one, and she was sure he always would be. But she could no longer subject herself to his hatred, resentment, or anger. It was no longer just hurting her, but was changing her: now, she hated him as much as he hated her; they resented each other equally.

Stacy pulled the door open and pulled her suitcase through the threshold. After one last glance, she shut the door to the apartment and left.


	11. James III: 2000

_**February 2000 - Princeton, NJ **_

"House!"

"Use your key!"

"My hands are full."

"Yeah, well my leg has a hole in it; we all have to adapt."

"You suck, you know that?"

"You got in, didn't you?"

"No thanks to you. These are your groceries."

"What, you want me to thank you?"

"That'd be a good place to start."

"Thank you, Wilson, for taking care of my crippled ass."

"Someone's gotta do it, especially if you won't."

Wilson watched as House snorted in response and slowly made his way from the living room to the kitchen, hands braced on his crutches and eyes trained on the floor in front of him. He shifted his gaze away before House could notice and proceeded to unpack the paper bags he'd placed on the island.

"Lisa Cuddy asked about you this morning."

"You were both at the hospital on a Saturday morning? God, how pathetic."

"She wants to know when you'll be ready to come back."

"What did you tell her?"

"That she'll have to ask you herself."

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did. She told me that she has been trying to ask you, but that you let all her calls go to the machine and never call her back."

"I let everyone's calls go to the machine; she isn't unique."

"I told her that. I also told her I'd mention it."

"Right."

"Do you even want to go back, House? Honestly?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't know what to think; it's starting to seem like you're content to just sit here and watch your soaps all day, having your groceries delivered and meals cooked for you."

"You think this is me feeling content? I know it quells your need to be needed, so it might surprise you to learn that I actually don't enjoy having to depend on you for every little thing."

"Well, you don't seem to want to do much to change it."

"Oh, really?"

"You tell me, House. First, you drove away Stacy. You refuse to take or return any calls. You're here, on this couch, every day. You aren't doing anything to help yourself."

"You have no idea what you're talking about, Wilson."

"No? Then you tell me, House. You tell me what you're doing to make this better for yourself."

"Wilson…"

"Tell me, House. Make me understand."

"I don't...patients...no one wants a doctor who's constantly high on fentanyl. Cuddy doesn't, the board doesn't, my patients and students certainly won't."

"Then we'll get you off the fentanyl, start something else. There are entire classes of drugs we haven't even touched yet."

"Fentanyl helps my pain."

"Something else might also help your pain. A different opioid, a tricyclic antidepressant for the nerve pain. Just because fentanyl works, doesn't mean it's the right choice."

"Easy for you to say."

"And that right there is why I don't think you're serious about going back to work. You're giving up, just like you gave up on rehab."

"I don't…"

"What, House?"

"I don't want to be in pain, damnit! Do you think I like being high? That I enjoy being dependent on an opiate that knocks me flat on my ass? I hate it! But what I hate even more is the pain. It's constant, Wilson. Constant. Muscle cramps if I sit too long, muscle cramps if I stand too long. The damaged nerves feel like I'm being stabbed, poked, and burned, like a piece of meat in a frying pan. Ever had to stand up after your foot's fallen asleep? It's that, multiplied by a thousand, all the time. It hurts, Wilson. And as much as feeling like my head's stuffed with cotton sucks, I'd take that over being rendered immobile by the pain any day.

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't be. Not your fault."

Wilson stared at his friend for a long moment, then nodded tightly. He'd finished unpacking House's groceries during their conversation and now reached into his jacket pocket, fingers searching for plastic vial he'd picked up from the pharmacy that morning.

"No one wants you to be in pain, House. We just want you to get back to your life." Wilson said at last, placing the orange bottle on the butcher block between himself and House. "I'm not writing you another scrip for fentanyl. I can't. So you'll have to try this. I'll be back tonight. Page me if you need me."

House nodded silently and watched Wilson leave. Once Wilson was gone, his eyes glided to the prescription bottle. He'd known for weeks that his days on fentanyl - at least fentanyl legally prescribed by Wilson - would soon come to an end. But he hadn't known when Wilson would officially cut him off, or what the oncologist would pick as a replacement. He took a painful, unsteady step forward and grasped the bottle, bringing it close so he could read the fine print. _Hydrocodone bitartrate and acetaminophen 7.5mg/750mg_. Vicodin.


	12. Greg II: 2000

_**December 2000 - Princeton, NJ **_

Your parents want you to come home for Christmas. Wilson wants you to come over for Christmukkah. You'd prefer to drink yourself into a nice, warm stupor on Christmas Eve and wake up on New Year's Day, perfectly oblivious to the joyfulness and idiocy that accompanies the holiday season.

Instead, you end up at the hospital with a patient. 23 year old female, medical student at Princeton, referred to you by the cardiologist to whom she was referred to by the neurologist to whom she was referred to by her primary care physician. She went from having a small rash (hence the PCP ) to a few headaches (hence the neurologist) to neurocardiogenic syncope (hence the cardiologist) before developing acute kidney failure (hence you, the nephrologist). Now her heart's failing and she doesn't qualify for a transplant and she's going to be dead before sunrise.

She had the balls to crack a good joke about your cane, though, and you still don't know what exactly is killing her, so you're spending your Christmas Eve with her, the dying 23 year old medical student.

You've been back at work since April, but only in infectious disease and nephrology and only part time; between your own chronic pain problem and the chronic stupidity problem afflicting everyone else, you can only take so much.

Up until this case, you'd nearly forgotten how it felt to have a true medical mystery to solve. The mental log of symptoms and medications and test results, the infinite puzzle pieces that you - and only you - are able to put together, the rush of adrenaline and frustration and anger when you think you've solved it, only to realize your patient is still dying. And though you haven't solved it yet, you're beginning to remember the taste of the satisfaction when you do. It's distracting you from the pain in a way that old men on dialysis and college athletes with staph infections doesn't. It's giving you a sense of purpose that you thought you'd never feel again.

Once you figure out what's killing your patient, or what has already killed her by the time you do, you're going to talk to Cuddy about the Diagnostics program she promised you before the infarction. You're going to tell her the truth - that you need this - and because she feels such overwhelming guilt for your current, permanent situation, she'll agree.

It'll be the best Christmas present you've ever gotten yourself.


	13. Greg III: 2004

**_Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital, Princeton NJ - October 2004 _**

"You rang?"

"Only about five hundred and fifty times in the past six hours."

"What can I do for you, mistress?"

"Give your fellows something to do."

"What? You don't think responding to my mail and doing my clinic hours are enough for them?"

"Please tell me Dr. Cameron isn't the one responding to your mail, House..."

"Okay: Dr. Cameron isn't the one responding to my mail."

"You're lying to me."

"You're right."

"They aren't here to respond to your mail or cover for you in the clinic, House. If that was their purpose, Dr. Chase probably wouldn't have chosen to relocate halfway across the world and Dr. Cameron certainly wouldn't have chosen to work for a misogynistic bastard like you."

House smirked. Cuddy continued.

"I typically refrain from saying this for fear of boosting your ego, but I'm nearing desperation: these fellows are here for you. You are one of the best medical minds of our time, House. Your brain works in weird, twisted ways that no one understands, yet you solve the cases no one else is able to. Doctors Chase and Cameron - and soon Dr. Foreman, too - are here to learn to think like you. Having them open letters, write emails, and treat the stuffy noses and ear infections you should be treating is not teaching them to think like you! Your wasting their talent and time, and my hospital's money.

"So, here's the deal: if you don't have a case by the time Dr. Foreman is done with HR on Friday morning, the Department of Diagnostics will be closed until further notice, all of your fellows will be reassigned to other departments, and no one but you will be allowed to complete your clinic hours.

Cuddy shook her head and pushed her long, thick hair off her shoulders.

"I'm done screwing around, House. Put your fellows to work, or we'll be back to where we were four years ago. And I don't know about you, but I am not particularly keen for either of us to return to that time in your life. Do I make myself clear?"

House's bright eyes locked on Cuddy's cool, grey stare. With a forced, fake smile, he nodded.

"Crystal."

Aside from telling Wilson about his predicament, House put no effort into finding a case between that meeting with Cuddy and Dr. Foreman's first day. And as he'd expected would happen, his team was handed a case on a silver platter on that fateful Friday by none other than Wilson; naturally, the act of telling Wilson that he had to find a case was as effective as, and a whole lot less work than, finding a case himself. He still put up a fight, mostly for show, but in the end agreed to treat the 29-year-old babbling-and-seizing teacher. House knew that Cuddy and Wilson were right: he had something valuable to share with these three doctors, and had the potential to do something valuable for his patients. And besides, he knew he could do something valuable for himself:

solve the puzzles.

_The End. _

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who has read &amp; reviewed this story! It's been fun to write, but I'm relieved to be bringing it to a close. Hopefully I'll have more to share with you soon! _


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